Seveteen Days
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Post Blue Bird, pre season 7. The first 17 days of Jane and Lisbon's relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**Seventeen Days**

A/N: Something to tide us over till the promo. I was given the challenges of Lisbon pinning Jane to the door, Jane carrying her to the bedroom when she's mad, Pike's return and angry make up sex.

Rating T/M

Patrick Jane was about to get himself a nice, scalding hot cup of Darjeeling when dread settled low into his stomach. Maybe not dread so much as shock and dismay.

Marcus Pike was standing in the bullpen.

Marcus Pike could really ruin a good cup of Darjeeling.

Jane stood, shoving his hands in his pockets and stretched. There was no point in trying to avoid confrontation, and if Pike was planning on punching him in the nose, he'd rather get it over with.

"Pike," Jane said, in his best friendly tone. He had sincerely hoped he'd never have to see Pike again—that Wylie could be convinced to forge a transfer to Fairbanks office—but alas, it wasn't to be. "I take it the buzzing world of Austin art theft brings you back?" He vaguely remembered someone mentioning a stolen Picasso appearing in town.

A muscle in Pike's jaw twitched. "I'm not here to beat you up if that's what you're implying."

Ah, so he knew then. Jane hadn't been exactly sure. He hadn't been with Lisbon when she'd had The Conversation with Pike, although he'd done his best to eavesdrop. For all he knew, she'd been quietly stringing Pike along, waiting for Jane to screw up phenomenally. That's what he would have done, once upon a time; it always paid to have a backup plan.

"Is Teresa here?" Pike asked, and Jane nearly winced at the pain in the other man's voice.

Pike did not look good. In fact, he looked a little bit like Jane had several months ago—unshaven, tired, wrinkled. Pike needed a shower and a good meal and eight solid hours of sleep. Jane, on the other hand, had actually cleaned up a little and gotten his act together. His suit was pressed, his face shaven. He'd been sleeping six or seven hours a night. Now Pike was outside looking in. Jane felt an uncharacteristic pang of sympathy for the man.

Which didn't stop him from lying.

"No, she's away on a case," he said. He realized the moment the lie left his mouth how easy it would be for Pike to find out that she was, indeed, in town. Which mean he was going to have to come up with convoluted scheme to keep Teresa out of the office.

"Well." Pike's eyes shifted to the side, his expression morose. "Tell her that I wish her well."

"Sure," said Jane, rocking back on his heels.

Pike's gaze slid to where Wayne sat on Teresa's desk, staring up at the two men with googly eyes. Wayne was a goldfish, one of the many gifts that Jane had purchased for Teresa during their brief relationship. He made sure the fish was fed and his water changed, as Teresa couldn't be trusted to keep a houseplant alive, much less a pet.

Actually, she was the most responsible person that he knew. They just liked to pretend she thought the fish was a stupid gift, and he pretended not to hear when she talked to it, tapping on the glass of it's tank gently. Wylie had bought her a little castle for Wayne to hide in and a "No Fishing" sign.

He knew what the fish, in his colorful, cheerful aquarium, meant to Pike. It meant life was still going on for Teresa. It meant that she wasn't living off of take-out and vending machine coffee and slowly unraveling at the seams.

Suddenly Jane wanted to hide that evidence of whimsy, of happiness. He wanted to shelter Pike from a grief he understood all too clearly.

He also wanted to keep Teresa a hundred miles from Marcus Pike at all times.

Instead he said, "I'll tell her you stopped by."

X X X

Convoluted scheming being his forte, Jane concocted a plan to keep Teresa out of the office for the rest of the day and into the next morning until Pike left for DC. He confirmed the agent's travel plans by having Wylie snoop through the FBI's travel database.

Then he called Fischer. "Is Lisbon still with you?"

She and Fischer had been called away to a crime scene. "Yeah, do you want to talk to her? Why didn't you call her cell?"

He rolled his eyes. Kim could be intense. "I need you to do me a favor," he said.

Before he could finish, Fischer said, "Does this have to do with Marcus Pike being in town?"

Jane drew in an annoyed breath.

"Relax, Loverboy, she's not standing near me. She didn't hear," Fischer replied wryly.

Teresa had insisted they keep their relationship private for professional reasons, but Jane saw no point in hiding it. The entire team knew they were together. In fact, as far as he was concerned, they could print it in the department newsletter: Hands Off: _Teresa Lisbon Is Taken—Read All About It!_

"I was wondering if you could, perhaps, drop her off at Dominic's at six-thirty, rather than back at the office," he said. He knew Teresa loved the restaurant- that she would be happy to be dining there rather than on leftovers.

"What's it in for me?" Fischer asked. He could hear her grinning.

"I'll owe you one?" he offered.

"No offense, but I don't exactly trust you to follow through on vague promises," she replied.

He sighed. "I'll upgrade you to first class the next time we have to fly somewhere?"

"Sold," she said, and hung up the phone.

X X X

It was six-forty-five and Jane was sitting at his table at Dominic's, nursing a scotch, and trying not to be worried that Teresa was fifteen minutes late. It was a ridiculous thing to be worried about. She was coming from a crime scene; she might have wanted to freshen up first.

She might have stopped at the office after all and run into Marcus, and now Marcus was explaining to her in minute detail why he was the better choice. Hell, he probably had a PowerPoint presentation worked up.

The thing was, Marcus _was_ the better choice, and Jane knew it. Teresa might love him, but love rarely made sense. Even on his best behavior, with the best intentions, he was bound to piss her off or hurt her sooner or later. It was just a thing he did.

He let the ice clink in his glass, the burn of the liquor working its way into his belly. It had been seventeen days since Teresa had gotten off that plane in Key West, seventeen of the best days of his life.

He would always hold the day Charlotte was born as the most important, thrilling, rewarding moment in his life—but it was followed quickly by the first time Angela had told him she loved him and the day Teresa had kissed him in that detention room, forgiving him for all his past sins and loving him regardless.

He couldn't rank them—didn't want to. He was a different man with Angie, living a different life, and that part of his life was over now, the chapter ended. Perhaps that's why these past seventeen days had been so remarkable, so sweet. Most people never knew how lucky they were, how precious a gift they had been given, but he was well aware. He had a second chance at happiness.

Their first kiss had been too sweet, too brief. He'd been so overwhelmed by the reality that Teresa Lisbon loved him that he barely felt it. Moments later they'd been whisked away by Abbott, put onto a plane, and sent to their rooms without supper for pissing off the TSA.

He hadn't even been allowed to sit next to Teresa, despite his best efforts at shuttling disgruntled passengers around. He'd threatened, cajoled and bribed, and only managed to get three seats behind her. And he couldn't even see the top of her head because she was so short.

When they'd arrived in Austin, she had to put her move on hold and break up with her fiancé. He'd be hobbled and facing disciplinary action. There'd barely been time for a few furtive kisses before they went their separate ways.

And so it was a full day later that he'd found himself standing on her porch, flowers in hand, feeling very insecure and overwhelmed as he mentally prepared himself for their first date. He knew, intellectually, how a date was supposed to go. He knew how to be charming and romantic. All those things he knew, though, they were artifice. He hadn't genuinely taken a woman out on a date since Kristina Frye, and that had nearly ended with him breathing into a paper bag. He hadn't been entirely certain that Teresa wouldn't look at him from across their table and realize what an enormous, phenomenal mistake she had made. She'd traded in a stable, handsome man for a widower in worn-out shoes who lived in a trailer.

When she'd opened the door he'd been flummoxed. She had been wearing the green dress he'd purchased for her, her white skin peeking out illicitly from behind emerald lace. She had been so beautiful that it took his brain a moment to register that everything in her house was in the same place as it was before. He had scanned the room behind her, not seeing any boxes or evidence that anything had recently been unpacked.

He'd looked at her quizzically and she'd said, "I was procrastinating. I was waiting for you to ask me to stay."

They never made it to their first date.

He'd kissed her like she deserved to be kissed, a woman who was far too good for him. Somehow the flowers had landed on the floor of her foyer, and his back had been pressed against the door he didn't remember walking through or closing. He kissed like he'd wanted to for a dozen years, every kiss he'd owed her. There were the tender kisses that he'd wanted to give her when she needed comfort, when Dr. Carmen had her convinced she'd murdered a man, when she'd seen a father that reminded her of her own. There were the passionate kisses he'd wanted to give her when they'd been so close, when he'd been overwhelmed by how beautiful, how sexy she was—not when she was dressed up for her date with Pike or the ball, but when she was flush from solving a case, mussed from tackling a suspect, deeply in her element.

Then there the kisses he'd craved most desperately, when his life had been bleak and so full of darkness, when he'd been fueled by revenge and nothing else. How many times had he wanted to pull her on top of him, on the couch, and soak up her goodness, her peace? He had wanted so much to bury himself in her, to feel, to forget with the one person he trusted.

It shouldn't have been any surprise when she wound up with her legs wrapped around his waist, her dress hiked to her hips, as he carried her unsteadily down the hall to her room. There had been no skill involved in their first time, no planning, no seduction. It had been all teeth and nails, pleading, names whispered on shuddering breaths. They never made it to the bed.

She had been braced against a wall, clinging to him, keening, her teeth sharp against his throat. He'd pinned her in place with his hips, his hands everywhere, stroking, caressing, exploring. He'd found that stroking the back of her thigh made her moan. He'd ripped the lace in an effort to pull it down her shoulder, then giving up and squeezed her aching breast through the fabric, too impatient to undress her properly.

He hadn't expected her to fumble his pants open or to push her panties aside and guide him inside her, but at that moment it felt right. It was twelve years of unspoken need breaking apart at once. Her heels had scraped at the back of his legs, and her fingertips had left bruises on his shoulders. She bit and scratched, and he delighted in it, little flickers of pain that sizzled along his nerve endings. He hadn't been particularly gentle, thrusting into her roughly, banging her hips against the wall. Every time he thought of slowing down, of being more careful with her she'd clawed at him, driving him forward. When she came, hard, it was on a sob, her head hitting the wall behind her.

After, they'd sunk to the floor, with her settled in his lap and his ankle throbbing. If his face was damp when he pressed it into the crook of her neck, she didn't say anything, but instead stroked his hair and kissed his temple.

They never made it to their first date. They didn't even leave the house that weekend. Instead they spent it making love, making each other laugh, eating pad ew see on living room floor, wrapped in her old afghan. When they'd returned to work the following Monday, she'd been wearing a high-necked blouse to hide the fact that she had whisker-burn from her neck down to her thighs, and he'd been noticeably limping. It turned out horizontal surfaces were not their thing.

Jane took another sip of his scotch and eyed his watch. Seven. She was never this late. He picked up his phone to text her, but hesitated.

He wasn't sure he wanted the answer to his text. He didn't want the happy, euphoric feeling he'd had the past seventeen days to fade.

He'd been sleeping, really sleeping for the first time in a decade—a deep, dreamless sleep. He'd wake up to a tangle of dark, sweet smelling hair, and wrap his arms around Teresa before drifting away again. He was relaxed, contented, intoxicated. The thought of losing that paralyzed him.

Jane felt a little kick in his chest when Teresa breezed in, still in her suit jacket and jeans. She strode over to their table, picked up his water glass, and threw it in his face.

He wiped at his eyes. "I feel like we've done this before."

"You're a jerk," she said.

"We've also already established that," he replied.

He waited for her to do something, to walk out. Instead she said, "Well?"

"Well…" He floundered, for once truly at a loss for what was happening.

"Fischer drove me here, you're driving me home. It's rush hour. I figure that gives me at least an extra twenty minutes to yell at you on the way."

She was a little storm cloud, and he had the fleeting thought that she was adorable, and that she'd kill him if he told her that. He threw several bills on the table and, ignoring the stares of the other diners, followed her to the door. When he placed his hand gently on the small of her back, she knocked it away.

When they settled into his car (an FBI company car, he didn't like driving the Airstream around town) she turned to him and demanded, "Why didn't you tell me Pike was in town?"


	2. Chapter 2

Teresa sat in a tangle of Austin, TX traffic and seethed. It was a quiet seething, though, and she could tell that was making Jane even more nervous. Every so often she would glance at him, taking in his chagrined expression.

Over the years she'd grown adept at reading Jane. She knew his wounded puppy face, the apologetic expression that said he was deeply sorry and ashamed for what he'd done. She knew it was a big, fat lie. Patrick Jane was rarely sorry for anything he did—but when he was, he felt it deeply.

Which was why his current state was alarming to her. He wasn't wearing that hang-dog, "I-can't-believe-I-was-so-stupid" look, but rather a taught expression that looked a little terrified and sick. She breathed through her nose slowly, unwilling to forgive him, curious as to what was actually going on in his head.

When they arrived at her house she got out and unlocked the door. He followed her inside, clearly anticipating that he had something to answer for. She ignored him, marching down the hall to her bedroom and its ensuite bathroom. He followed her, hands shoved in his pockets.

"I'm taking a shower," she announced.

He gave her a grin, one that was a little wilted around the edges.

"Alone," she snapped, and slammed the bathroom door in his face.

She could hear him shuffling around outside as she clutched the edges of her counter-top. Her knuckles were white.

When she had entered into a relationship with Jane, she'd done it knowing that it would not be easy going. She'd also known that she'd never feel more excited or cherished in her life. She'd assumed, wrongly it seemed, that while Jane would continue to lie and scheme and plot and con, she'd be on the inside now. She was his…what? Girlfriend? Lover? Partner? She wasn't a rube anymore. He might play his games, but this time she'd be in on them.

Sure, she figured Jane would lie occasionally—lovers did that, by omission, or telling little white lies to avoid hurt feelings. She could deal with that. But the fact that he deliberately set up their date tonight so she wouldn't run into Marcus was something else entirely. If he had failed to mention that Marcus was in town, that she could forgive, but this? By keeping them apart Jane was saying, in effect, that he didn't trust her to be around Marcus, and that one stung like a bitch.

Maybe she was naïve for assuming that in seventeen days all the mistrust and history between them had been resolved.

She looked around her bathroom, swiping at tears that stung her eyes. Ever since their first night together Jane had been slowly moving into her place, uninvited of course. His blue toothbrush sat next to hers. His razor was in her medicine cabinet. When she turned the water on in her shower she saw his soap and his shampoo sitting on the shelf.

It wasn't that they'd made the decision to cohabitate, it was more that neither of them was willing to part. After they'd made love, in her hallway of all places (she still had a sore spot on the back of her head), she'd had no intention of sending him home to spend the night alone. She wanted the pillow talk and the morning after as much as she'd wanted the sex. She had sensed, too, that it was important for Jane, that level of intimacy. For once, he'd slept in a bed and not been alone.

So he'd slowly taken over her place, one pair of socks at a time. She was learning to relinquish her space, her control. She found one day that her kitchen cabinets had been reorganized. She didn't say anything, but she took great pleasure in putting things back in the "wrong" place.

She started thinking of the left side of the bed of Jane's side, which was strange. The truth was, she never really thought of her bed as belonging to Marcus at all. It was her bed; he stayed there sometimes, and when he left she happily spread out in the middle.

She had discovered that Jane's brain required almost constant feeding—the man was a voracious reader. Books and magazines and journals had started appearing on tables and chairs and shelves. If it made her house a little dustier, if it made her sneeze once in awhile, she accepted it as one of his eccentricities.

Now she glanced at the Journal of Neuroscience currently sitting on her bathroom counter. Who the hell read that for fun? Why couldn't he read Sports Illustrated like a normal man? She brushed the periodical off the counter and into the trash.

Stripping and tossing her clothes in the hamper, she stepped into the shower and let the hot water hit her skin like tiny needle pricks. She scrubbed her hair roughly, scratching at her scalp, the scent of her shampoo filling the room.

The truth was, she didn't really want a normal man. She hadn't wanted Marcus. She'd used him a proxy to avoid addressing her feelings for Jane. Things had started to escalate between them since he'd returned from South America, in a weird, teetering sort of way, and it frightened her.

As much as Teresa hated psychiatrists, she acknowledged that cognitive behavioral therapy (thank you to one of Jane's many articles she'd found lying around the house) had it's value. She was self-aware. Her mother died suddenly when she was a child, and her father had abandoned her emotionally. She craved stability, constancy more than anything. That's why her longest relationship with a man had been with Patrick Jane—not the seventeen days they'd been lovers, but the twelve years before. For all his erratic behavior, Jane showed up every day. He might have been irritating, but he was _there_, and over time she learned to rely on that.

That was why it hurt so damn bad when he'd left for Vegas and for South America. Jane and all his lunacy was the one thing she found she could count on. It had taken her twelve years to learn to open up to a man, to trust him, and then he left her. She'd clung to those letters, craving the closeness they once had.

When he'd returned, and he'd started looking at her like _that_… Well, it had been terrifying. What if he gave her more and then suddenly retracted all of it? She'd fallen in love with him slowly, over so many years, and if he vanished on her? She'd never survive the heartache.

So no, she didn't want Marcus Pike not even a little, and if Jane with all his perceptive skills couldn't see that then maybe he didn't see how much she really loved him, needed him.

It was then that she realized she was crying, and that Jane was knocking on the door.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Not really," she said, over the drumming of the water.

He opened the door and she didn't say anything when she felt him step into the shower behind her, his naked skin brushing hers. He took her bath gel from the shelf and lathered some of it in his hands, then proceeded to wash her in long, gentle strokes.

He rubbed his thumbs into the aching muscles of her lower back, his hands splayed on her hips. She groaned in response. Jane really had magic hands. She'd discovered that foot rubs were one of the many perks of being in a relationship with him.

"Would it help if I told you I was sorry?" he asked. He sounded sincere. She knew without turning that he was.

"Fischer didn't tell me," she replied, "so whatever you owe her, still stands. I found out from Cho of all people." She turned around and stabbed a finger in the center of his chest. "And did you really think I was going to see Marcus again and suddenly change my mind about all of this?"

He looked ashamed for a minute, then his expression hardened a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You _were_ engaged to him two weeks ago."

"For like a minute!" she snapped. "Because you were an ass and…and I made a terrible, emotional decision."

"So excuse me for being a little nervous," he replied, his voice hot.

She felt her blood pressure raise, the water suddenly too hot on her skin. She shut it off and reached for a towel. "Do you really think I'm the type of person to just jump between men all the time? I thought you knew me, Jane. What kind of crap is this?"

She stalked out of the bathroom, still dripping, ignoring him as he followed her, toweling himself off. She tried not to notice the line of golden hair that went from his navel down into the towel, or the fact that his arms flexed with every movement.

"I don't think you're some kind of floozy," he replied, irritated. "I just thought…"

He struggled there, forcing his hand through his hair.

"I thought we were done with lying," she snapped, "but apparently I should have asked. Although you might have lied about that too."

"I didn't lie. I never told you he _wasn't _here," he replied. "I planned a date for us, that just happened to keep you out of the office."

"A date on false pretenses," she said, then she remembered his last date. "Like the one with Krystal. Am I like her now?" It was a childish thing to say, but it felt good once it left her lips.

"I don't know," he asked sarcastically, "are you running a drug syndicate now and failed to tell me?"

She threw her towel at him, and he caught it easily. She opened her one of her dresser drawers and took out an old tee-shirt that fell to her knees. She pulled it on. Next it to were the silky, sexy things she'd brought specifically for Jane. She shoved them aside.

"You tricked me, and I count that as lying," she said, crossing her arms under her breasts.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment, Jane almost naked, Teresa wearing her pajamas, the bed in between them. It was intimate, the sort of fight a married couple might have. Part of her wanted to just hash out their differences there, on the mattress.

"I told you I loved you, Patrick," she said quietly. "That needs to count for something."

He looked at her coldly and said, "You never said that Pike?" The sarcasm was dripping from his voice.

Flushing she said, "No, I didn't." She looked at the surprised expression on his face and turning her back to him said, "Hear that, Patrick? That's what the truth sounds like."


End file.
